Deep Sea Embers

“To my cherished friend and scholarly collaborator:

It feels as if several years have passed since our last correspondence, and this estrangement is unjust. These years seem to have been spent in a haze, constantly engaged in trivial pursuits. It was only recently that I realized how much time I’ve wasted…

Many remarkable events have occurred lately, and words cannot capture the transformation in my life… Frost is a phenomenal place, offering not only cold, enduring winters but also a wealth of subjects worthy of our earnest exploration…

Do you recall the ancient legends of the frigid Cold Sea we discussed during our last encounter? These subjects have recently re-emerged in my thoughts, and I feel as though I’ve grasped certain clues that may help us unravel numerous unanswered questions, such as the existence of city-states within the frigid region and the origins of many enigmatic local customs in Frost…

My friend, Frost is truly an extraordinary place, and this notion has become increasingly evident to me. The Cold Sea harbors a plethora of mysterious pasts ripe for investigation. I plan to meet esteemed experts in history and folklore and intend to visit Cold Harbor soon. Most importantly, though, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join me in this adventure…

We haven’t seen each other in many years, Morris. You’ve mentioned your aversion to the chilly northern air, but I believe you’ll appreciate the warmth of my hearth and my assortment of exquisite wines. Please give it serious thought. We can revisit those captivating secrets by the cozy fire once more. Trust me, Frost is genuinely a remarkable place…

Won’t you come and witness this wondrous city-state for yourself?

Your most reliable friend and scholarly collaborator, Scott Brown, 1900-12-2, penned at 42 Fireplace Street.”

Morris’s gaze silently scanned the letter’s final line, remaining quiet for an extended period until several minutes later.

“It’s his handwriting, and the discussions he referenced did indeed occur,” he murmured.

“Today is December 17th, and this letter was sent a fortnight ago,” his wife noted, her voice laced with apprehension. “Considering the distance between Frost and Pland, that’s a reasonable timeframe.”

“Yes, the timing and postmark are both ordinary, but the author of this letter passed away years ago,” Morris said slowly. “I vividly remember the day I received the obituary—a letter from Frost, penned by his favored pupil, who informed me that her mentor had tragically fallen overboard en route to Cold Harbor. Unfortunately, his body could not be recovered.”

“…I don’t recall that happening; those were the years when I was in a haze,” the wife said, moving closer to hold Morris’s hand. “We should report this to the church. The content and phrasing in the letter may appear normal, but upon closer examination, it’s rather disconcerting.”

Morris gently held his wife’s hand and breathed deeply, “Indeed, it should be reported to the church… but not only to the church.”

…

Inside the captain’s quarters of the ship named Vanished, Duncan hunched over the navigation table, his hands supporting him as he studied the mist-shrouded nautical chart and its slowly extending route.

Vanished’s phantom was gradually moving at the chart’s center, and the dense fog surrounding the ship dissipated as it progressed. At one end of the route, the Pland city-state they had temporarily left behind was visible, and just beyond the route in the thinning fog, another faintly glowing point could be seen.

Duncan’s gaze focused on this bright spot representing the Sea Mist.

Ever since their last exchange of artillery fire, the Sea Mist’s marker had appeared on this chart, and he could vaguely sense the Sea Mist’s current direction and even the ship’s general condition.

This perception was imprecise, but it seemed unaffected by the increasing distance between the two ships.

Clearly, like the “marked ones” who had been tainted by the spiritual flame, the Sea Mist, having been hit by Vanished’s cannon fire, had also established a connection with itself.

However, this connection was not the same as the complete control he held over the Vanished.

“Are you determining our next course?” Goathead’s voice unexpectedly came from the edge of the navigation table. “In that case, I have about a hundred and forty valuable suggestions. I can…”

“No, you can’t,” Duncan expertly interrupted without waiting for Goathead to continue rambling. “I don’t need any advice; I have my own plans.”

Goathead shook its head, seemingly wanting to say more, but just as it was about to open its mouth, footsteps approached from outside the door. It swung open, and Alice entered to only pause in the next before she hastily turned around and closed it again. This time though, the Miss Doll made sure to knock before barging in.

“…You don’t need to knock once you’re already inside. You should knock before opening the door,” Duncan said flatly, glancing at her. “Have you finished tidying up ‘that side’?”

“Yep,” Alice nodded immediately. “The shelves on the first floor have been cleaned, as well as the counter and stairs. The kitchen is also tidied up!”

“Hmm,” Duncan casually responded. “What about Ai?”

“After dropping me off, she went to the kitchen,” Alice explained. “She kept shouting something about Crazy Thursday as she flew away…”

“She’s rather carefree,” Duncan shook his head, smiling. He then noticed Alice’s neck movement seemed off when she nodded and unconsciously furrowed his brow. “Your neck movement feels odd… Has the glue in the joints not been cleaned properly?”

Upon hearing this, Alice shook her head from side to side, displaying a noticeable lag and stiffness.

“It seems… there was a bit,” Miss Doll admitted, appearing somewhat embarrassed. “I feel a bit stiff.”

Duncan’s eye twitched as he helplessly observed the doll, who held her head in hand. After a moment, she let out her signature giggle: “Hehe…”

“Don’t hehe,” Duncan sighed. “Come here, I’ll help you clean up. If the residue isn’t removed, it will further damage the joints, and it’s quite uncomfortable watching you struggle to nod.”

“Oh.”

Alice obediently approached, and once by Duncan’s side, she grabbed her own head, twisted from side to side, and then removed it with a “pop.”

The headless doll held her own head with both hands: “Captain… captain… captain, for you.”

An odd sensation inevitably welled up in his heart. However, Duncan still accepted Alice’s head, retrieved a scraper, brush, and soft cloth from a small drawer beneath the navigation table, sighed, and inspected the doll’s joint condition.

Despite his attitude, Duncan was honestly somewhat moved inside by his own composure for being able to adapt, anticipate, and handle these situations.

Human adaptability was truly remarkable.

Picking up the scraper, Duncan gently removed the remaining unstable glue marks from the joints, then glanced at Alice’s face.

Her silver hair lay strewn across the navigation table, and the doll blinked, gazing at him.

She was undeniably beautiful, possessing a delicate and flawless face. Even in the strangest circumstances, it seemed people could overlook the oddity and couldn’t help but admire her beauty.

However, it was unfortunate that this individual was typically too comical, causing Duncan to regret that she had a mouth while appreciating her stunning appearance…

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no, not at all, just a little, a little itch, but very… very mild,” Alice stammered.

Then she fell silent, as did the goat head beside her, leaving only the faint sound of the scraper’s friction and the soft lapping of waves outside the window.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Alice hesitantly spoke up with a stammer, her tone sounding defeated: “Captain, captain, captain, am I very, very foolish?”

Duncan’s movements abruptly ceased.

He was astonished that the doll could possess such self-awareness and insight.

But then he simply shook his head expressionlessly: “What makes you suddenly lament this?”

“I, I always struggle to grasp, grasp what you teach, and consistently, consistently, consistently make a mess of things, and also, also, also waste your, your time.”

Duncan was silent for a moment before resuming his work with the scraper.

“I don’t think you’re wasting my time,” he said gently, “and besides, you are a bit clumsy.”

“Ah, so that’s how it is.”

“But it’s not a big deal. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, and we’re all just a little ‘clumsy’ in areas where we lack skill. Perhaps you just have more areas where you’re not proficient,” Duncan glanced into Alice’s eyes, “does that bother you?”

“I-I-I don’t know, I haven’t thought, thought, thought about it, but I worry, worry, worry that I might hold, hold, hold you back…”

“Then set aside those needless concerns and continue living happily,” Duncan shook his head, “if you come across something you can’t learn, simply try learning it a few more times.”

“W-W-Will you teach, teach, teach me again, again, again?”

“…If I have the time.”

Alice blinked, seeming to contemplate for a moment before gradually breaking into a smile.

“Hehe…”

Hearing her signature laughter, Duncan couldn’t help but smile as well. He then picked up the brush and cloth to clean the dried glue scraps he had scraped off.

At this moment, a distant yet distinct call suddenly surfaced in his mind.

It was the voice of Morris.